Beyond Black Ski Masks
by sweetdonalbain81507
Summary: I mean, what does one wear that's apropos for a party that's also a crime?
1. Maureen: Proper

**Disclaimer: Do I have to put this on? RENT is not mine. There. I said it. Don't make me admit it again.**

She had never broken into a building before.

Okay, so that was not _entirely_ true; there had been that one time in high school...but that was another story and did not count. Not _really._

Anyway, she had never _really_ broken into a building before. What exactly was the proper procedure? Not that she had ever been _proper_ before either, but there was always a time to start. No, there was never a time to start being proper. In theory there was one, she supposed, but there was no time to be proper.

The time when planning to break into a building was _definitely_ not the time to be proper, in any case. Which brought her back to her original point. What did you, well, do? She had a feeling that Miss Manners had no advice for the particular situation. What advice would Miss Manners have, anyway, if she had some? _Leave an IOU for the broken lock? Tidy up the broken splinters of the door? Turn said splinters into an attractive sculpture?_

Shit, she was getting off topic again. Whatever. She was just fabulously creative that way. And talented. And breathtaking. And a genius. And sexy. Almost as sexy as the door-splinter sculptures.

Right! Topic! Breaking into buildings! Specifically, apartment buildings. Did that make any difference? Ah! Point!

Burglar movies! She knew she had watched some! What did they wear? Wait, she knew. They wore little eye masks, and black, and hats. Hats were just not her thing. Her hair did not like being contained. Little things were okay; hats were not. The mask thingies...they did horrors to her eyes, which were pretty gorgeous under regular circumstances. Black was her color, though. Black suited her.

And she had to look _fabulous._ Joanne was probably a wreck by then. A whole week without _her?_ Could anyone go that long? Maybe she should be dressing down, making it easier for her ex-lover...no. Joanne was already probably jealous. What would hurt making her more so?

She groaned, dropping into a chair. Well, she could have sworn there was a chair. Maybe she did not drop into a chair. Maybe she dropped onto the floor. What point are you trying to make? Anyway, she groaned and dropped. Ooh, that sounded dirty. _Anyway,_ she groaned and dropped, in an entirely nonsexual way. Well, she was pretty sexual all the time. No! Bad distractions! Bad gir-and back to the dirtysoundingness. That is not a word. Whatever. Wait! Back to the point!

No wonder Joanne had left. Ha! Jealous! Yeah, right! Joanne was perfectly fine without her, but she...she needed closure. She needed peace. She needed satisfaction. She needed to feel better off without that obsessive compulsive control freak. She needed...she needed _chips._

She sighed happily. What more do you need in life but chips? Not much. Not much at all. What did she care what she wore to the breaking back in the building party, as long as she had chips. She would bring the bag. She would definitely bring the bag.

But...what would the boys say? She could just hear Collins now: "Shit, girl, more chips?" Okay, he would not say that. Whatever. Or Roger, oh Roger. Roger would never let her live her indulgence down! He would _so_ call her fat. Stupidly skinny junkie boy. She would have to show off her, completely _not_ fat, body. Okay, clothing was important again. What to wear, what to wear...

Yes! She had it! Black, sleek, skintight...everyone had heard of cat burglars, right?

* * *

**A/N: I know it was short, but how much more rambling about a cat suit can you do? I might put up another chapter, about Angel and Collins deciding to be James Bond and Pussy Galore, but I don't know. Please review!**

**A/N 2: This fic was written in honor of the impending death of my first fic, Nail Polish. By tomorrow, the document will no longer be saved on my account.**


	2. Angel: Nervous

She was not exactly a nervous person, in her opinion, at least.

She had always just taken life as it came. He was much more comfortable as a female, okay. She was attracted to men, no biggie. She had HIV; that was bad, but whatever. She had just met the love of her life...well, that was the exception to her "anything goes" attitude. That was a big, no, a _huge_ deal.

She was not overly concerned with what _he_ thought of her, strangely enough; something about the way that he acted around her, or maybe the way that she laughed when she was with him, or it could be the way that he smiled at her...she had no idea, she just knew that they belonged, like magnets. Somehow, she knew that they would be together until the end.

What she _was_ concerned about were his friends. If they hated her...well, whatever she had said about everlasting love just went down the drain. He loved them first, and, as far as she could see, he loved them best. Who was she kidding? Of _course_ he loved them best. They were _friends_. What did that mean for her? She had to make a great impression on them.

Of course, they had met before, since he spent just about all of his time with them. She _thought_ that they liked her well enough; they certainly did not _dis_like her, but that really did not mean much. Something about that group seemed to say that dislike was not their natural way, that it was saved for special people.

For once in her life, she was not planning on being special.

Of course, she had to be special; she just had to keep from being special. There was a _world_ of difference. Really.

So even though she had misgivings about this idea (a breaking back into the building party? What? How exactly were they planning on getting through bolts, and plywood, and a padlock, and a chain?), she approached it with a whole heart. She was going to make the most of it, hell, she was going to _enjoy_ it. She was going to use all of her crazy, personal flair and her occasional practicality and make this New Year's Eve the best damn Squatter's Ball (which she secretly called it) the world had ever seen!

She giggled softly. Maybe a Squatter's Ball was not so ridiculous after all. Yes it was, she could never lie convincingly, especially to herself (she had never quite understood why people talked about not being to lie _even_ to themselves; surely, oneself knew the truth behind the lie). But maybe it was not a terrible idea. It was actually kind of...cool. Very secret agent. Very Sean Connery. Very (she had to say it) Bond. James Bond.

And there was her dreamy side again. The fact that Mark could do a killer Scottish accent (which he could, strangely enough) would not be sufficient to actually break into the building. Bond, she thought, lived in London anyway.

So how would they get in? She had the feeling that none of the gang actually had a plan; they were Bohemians, they did not _believe_ in plans. Whatever else she might be, she was a street musician. Street musicians _had_ to have plans. She could be practical when the need arose.

Clearly she would have to be the one who actually figured out how to enter the building. She sighed, going over to search her purse.

Hmm, she had a wallet, a nail file, _her _wallet, a pen, a pad of paper, a pair of sunglasses, a screwdriver, a comb, a loofah, a Bible, a compact mirror, a Qu'ran, a pair of scissors, an extension cord, lip balm, perfume, lube, Animal Farm, lipstick, three extra drumsticks, aha! A blowtorch! She would have made an ideal Boy Scout; when was she not prepared?

So now she had her necessary materials; what was she going to wear? Well, duh! Of course she knew!

As it happened, while Mark's Scottish accent had no competitor, Collins's London accent was not terrible at all.

**A/N: The end, for real this time! Well, that was kind of odd. I don't know; I always just saw Angel as the practical one. Well, behind Joanne, of course.**

**The contents of Angel's purse were based off of the contents of my own purse. Of course, I don't have half of the things that she has (I mean, if I had a blowtorch in my purse, I would have no purse), but the basic idea is there (I do carry around a Bible and a Qu'ran, and I'm not religious).**

**Please review!**


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